The Last Night
by K Seisho
Summary: On the evening before the rumble, what did we miss in the hospital? What was said... and left unsaid? This is my take on what happened that night. Rated T for some language. (The Outsiders) (Dally x Johnny oneshot)


**To my mother, if ever she reads this: I apologize in advance. Forgive my language. :s**

 **To my closest friend, the Challenger's Daughter (You know who you are!): Thanks for being my first reader. Love you.**

* * *

"Hey, Johnnykid."

The sun was setting over the hospital, casting its dying orange rays into Johnny Cade's hospital room, glancing off his black hair, over the angles of his dark face. He was sleeping, passed out cold, and Dallas Winston hoped for one selfish second that those dark eyes were open, glad to receive him. The hope was smothered as soon as it had come, because Johnny Cade was infinitely better off this way, asleep, the pain lost on his unconscious mind. The kid needed his sleep, anyway.

Yes, sleep. A luxury, now, it seemed to Dallas. He'd gotten next to none last night, and the dark shadows beneath his eyes showed it. Each time he'd nodded off, propped up in his hard, uncomfortable hospital bed, the sounds of screaming, Johnny's the most vivid and horrible of all, assaulted his attempts at sleep, and the visions of roaring fire and splintering wood burned sharp against his eyelids so that he jerked awake, unable to fall asleep for several hours afterward.

Dallas let out a long sigh, beginning to rethink ever leaving his own room. Why did he come in here, anyway, when he knew full well that all it would bring was pain? He didn't want to see Johnny like this. It ruined everything, seeing him lying there in that rickety hospital bed, the visual confirmation that, given he survive all this — and Dallas wouldn't allow himself to contemplate the alternative — he'd be stuck in a wheelchair the rest of his life. That was no way for Johnny to live, with so much taken away from him in so small an instant.

Dallas leaned against the door frame, his eyes lingering on the boy's fluttering eyelids, eyelashes flecked with the sun's deepening orange light. Johnny was too young to die, that much was certain. His life hadn't even begun yet, and here it was, on the brink of ending. And for what? What'd he do to deserve it?

Get too gallant for his own good, that's what... Did he really have to go into that church, save those stupid little kids? Was all this worth it?

 _No_ , thought Dallas angrily. No, it wasn't worth it, but that's how damned cruel the world is. _Eye for an eye, right?_ he thought bitterly. What eye? What in Hell would make Johnny — young, brave, stupid Johnny — deserve _this?_

What would make _Dallas himself_ deserve this?

. . . Too many things, he decided.

But how would he endure the pain? How would he go on if Johnny were to...? He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.

He was so lost in his own brooding that he didn't notice when Johnny's eyes fluttered open. Not until his head turned and he spoke, in a low, hoarse whisper, "Dallas?" did he return to the present.

Ice blue eyes found brown, and Dallas, just for a moment, just for Johnny, melted a bit. His expression, previously stony and hard, softened toward Johnny as he walked into the room.

"How'd you get in here, Dally?" Johnny asked softly, a grin playing across his lips. He was glad to see him, Dallas noticed, returning the grin as he realized this and relief flooded through him.

"I got special privileges," returned Dallas, his grin widening slightly. Johnny's eyes flitted to the pocket of his jeans in time to see something long and jet black disappear into it. "Don't you worry about that."

"'S'at Two-Bit's switch?"

"Hey, I said don't worry about it, didn't I?" said Dallas, but the hard edge that was so often present in his voice was replaced with an unusual softness.

"Didn't kill anyone, did ya?" asked Johnny, and the grin could be heard even through the hoarseness of his voice.

"The nurses needed a little, ah, convincing," answered Dallas. "But don't you worry about it."

"Mhm." Johnny gave a chuckle, one that turned quickly into a gasp and a grimace as he tried to shift himself in the bed. He collapsed into the pillows, his ashen face contorted with pain.

"Hey, hey," Dallas was at the bedside in an instant. "Quit tryna move, you'll hurt yourself even more."

"Quit caring so much, Dally," rasped Johnny, breathing fast, eyes closed. "You're scarin' me."

Dallas didn't smile, only pulled up a chair (that scraped across the floor rather loudly) and sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the mattress, worry etched into his face.

" _You're_ scarin' _me_ , kid. You're getting worse."

"I know," was Johnny's reply, and Dallas was utterly shocked — and a bit more worried — when Johnny gave another chuckle. "I know. I'll take it if it means those kids'll be okay."

"You'll..." Dallas faltered, trying to take in what he'd just heard. He looked away, too pained to speak, his burning eyes coming to rest on the nightstand by the bed, upon which a copy of _Gone With The Wind_ sat with a cheap pen clipped to the back cover.

So Johnny thought this whole stupid escapade was worth his life. His _life_. His life, for those of some stupid kids he didn't even know. Kids who probably won't even remember his face, or his name, or his dreadful scream as the church collapsed onto him. Kids who won't give a shit whether he died or not, because that's how kids are. They always take; never do they give. They don't care about anyone but themselves, so why, _WHY_ would Johnny care, either? Stupid things like that land you in hospital beds with broken backs.

"Maybe _you_ can," said Dallas, after a while, "but... but _I_ can't. _I_ can't take it." He felt childish in saying it aloud, selfish because he knew it would only cause Johnny more pain. He could feel his eyes burning, welling up, and he willed himself not to cry, not to break down in front of Johnny Cade.

"Quit that, Dallas," breathed Johnny, who'd turned his head away, looking out the window, his eyes glossy with tears. The sun burned a fierce red glow across the room now, a savage fire that was, even in all its redness, unable to disguise the red in his eyes. "You'll get on fine without me. You've got the rest of the gang yet, and they're gonna stick by you, you know that."

" _That's_ not the same," hissed Dallas, "and you damn well know it!" He ran his hands feverishly through his white-blond hair, pulling at it, hardly noticing what he was doing, and it took everything he had to hold back the sob that threatened to escape him. He felt sick. This wasn't supposed to happen, none of this was supposed to happen. It should be _him_ in that bed, not Johnny, not the kid, not the one who'd been beaten badly enough already without all this to deal with. Not the one kid whose spirit hadn't yet been broken, world shattered by those hard city streets where only the toughest survive. Dallas couldn't — _couldn't_ — lose Johnny, not yet, not ever.

Johnny turned to look at Dallas again, and his dark eyes held immeasurable pain, more so than any physical injury in the world could bring. He drew a shuddering breath, as though he were about to speak, and then his mouth closed, lips pressed into a thin line, tears spilling, unhindered, down his cheeks. He hated to see Dally like that, he really did, because all it did was unsettle the peace he'd had upon making his decision, his decision that saving those kids was worth a broken back, worth dying for. "Quit that," he said again, harsher than he'd meant to.

"Quit _what_ , Johnny?" Dallas's gaze burned fiercely into that of the boy's now, daring him to answer, to tell him that he wasn't supposed to care that he would die. "Quit caring? I _can't_. _I can't not care_." Which was true, oh, so painfully true. Johnny was the one bit of goodness left in his world, the one voice reassuring him that all was not yet lost, that life could go on through all the pain. The last bit of innocence, the last bit of genuine hope, genuine... love. How could the world be so cruel, to take that away from him, to take from him the one person he'd ever allowed himself to love? Johnny wasn't dead yet, but he might as well be, what with how far gone he already seemed to Dallas.

But how brave he was, how _brave_ Johnny was to accept his fate with open arms, without question! How brave, how foolish he was, when he ran into the collapsing church without so much as a second thought! How golden he was to him, Dallas realized, looking into his face, at the angry, red, blistering burns up his arms, the side of his neck. How much better of a person Johnny was, caring and courageous enough to run in and save those stupid kids, hopeful enough to endure his parents' horrible abuse, feeling, having heart enough to be able to cry unashamedly, something Dallas, himself, had long since forgotten how to do.

How he loved him, Dallas thought. How he loved him, so strongly, so painfully. Since the day they'd met, all those years ago, Dallas knew that Johnny Cade was someone to keep, to protect, someone worth living for, because Johnny Cade was everything Dallas Winston was not. Calm, cool, rather detached, yet fiercely hopeful and eternally passionate in care and love. Even in dying, golden.

How would Dallas live without him?

* * *

.

.

The two had been sitting in silence for a long time, the fiery red sun as their company. There was nothing Dallas could say, nothing that wouldn't only bring more pain. Silence prevailed for what seemed like ages, and as Johnny gazed out the window, tears still running silently down his face, Dallas, slowly, tentatively, leaned forward and laid his hand over the boy's. Johnny, startled from his musings, turned toward Dallas, eyes widened a bit too much for comfort. Dallas made to pull his hand away when Johnny reached forward and caught it in his own. "No," he said quietly, "it's alright. I... I want to know you're still here..."

Dallas exhaled, scooting his chair closer to the bedside, entwining his fingers with Johnny's. He gave a gentle squeeze, one that he hoped conveyed all that spoken words, in that moment, simply couldn't do justice. He never wanted any of this to happen. Not to the kid, not to the one person he loved. He was terrified, terrified that his worst fears would finally be realized in the coming days, that he'd lose what little reason he had to wake up in the morning, to get on with his life. He was conflicted, because the very things he loved about Johnny, the very things he'd wanted to protect, had brought about what could soon, easily, be his very death. He was more afraid, more sick, than he'd ever been in his life, seeing Johnny in so much pain.

 _But is it Johnny's pain, now?_ he thought. _Or is it mine?_

He didn't know. He couldn't think anymore. He didn't really want to. All he wanted was to be here, right now, with Johnny's warm, live hand in his, to love someone while he still could. Dallas was far from content, and his fears were far from abated, and he still had myriad memories and feelings and injustices slowly, endlessly tearing away at him, but he was numb to it right then. The feel of Johnny's hand in his was enough.

Johnny, almost imperceptibly, squeezed back, closing his eyes against the setting sun. His face was steadily draining of color, and, even in the sun's red glow, he looked sickly and gray against the white pillows... but he was, by some miracle, smiling.

"Johnny," said Dallas, leaning forward slightly, squeezing his hand again. "Johnny? Johnny, you hear me, kid?" He remembered the doctors telling him that Johnny had little chance of surviving the week. "Hey. Johnny!"

"Keep your head on," breathed Johnny, opening his eyes. Even his eyes were smiling. "I'm alive. Not dead yet. Just..." — he nodded toward the window — "...enjoying the sunset."

 _With your eyes closed._ Dallas sat back in his chair.

"... And you," he added after a moment. "You and the sunset." He drew a deep breath, then said, slowly, "Thank you, Dallas. For... being here." He looked at him, tearing up again, but not, Dallas realized, out of pain. "I know it's been... hard for you. I'm..." — he drew another shaky breath — "...sorry. I'm sorry, Dallas."

Dallas looked into Johnny's dark brown eyes, into the undisguised pain they still held, and took a deep breath.

"Don't you apologize, you little shit," he said quietly, and before Johnny could open his mouth to speak, Dallas had leaned forward, brushed the black bangs out of Johnny's face, and pressed his lips to his forehead. His skin was fever-hot, almost burning, but he didn't mind. He pulled away, just by an inch, and whispered, "Don't you dare apologize."

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 **The End**

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* * *

 **I know, it's been a while, hasn't it? :)**

 **I read** _ **The Outsiders**_ **for class a while ago, and Dally's death spoke to me in a way that no other part of the book had. It spoke volumes about who he was as a character, about who** — **and how** — **he loved. About his internal struggles, his views on life. My heart broke when he died, because I realized, then, how deeply and strongly he cared for Johnny. While I understood full well that it was, in the book, a purely brotherly sort of love, it wasn't difficult for me to imagine them** _ **in**_ **love... Take that as you will.**

 **The idea for this fanfiction had been in my head for many months before I bothered to sit down and write it. I wanted it to take place in the timeline of the book to make it seem real. More than anything, I wanted the _emotion_ to feel real (because I really am a sucker for love stories). I hope I've accomplished my goal.**

 **I hope you've enjoyed it. Please leave a review. Thanks for reading. :)**

 **\- K Seisho**


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